Confessions of a storytelling girl

 © Creative Commons Zero (CC0)

 © Creative Commons Zero (CC0)

I tend to go to a bookshop once a month. I used to go a lot more often but like most people I have succumbed to the convenience of Amazon Prime. Having access to most literature with a simple click is just too good to resist. And there is Kindle, light, compact, handbag-perfect, so a lot of the fiction I read these days gets stored there. Saying that, digital technology will never be able to replace the feeling of owning a good book copy. The weight, the delicacy of the paper, the crafted design that goes on the cover, the thought that one day in many, many years, it will turn sepia and acquire heritage. These combine with an outstanding prose or poetry make a book’s hard copy worth buying.

Some people enjoy browsing technology; phones, laptops, screens! Others, items of clothing, shoes, handbags... I like browsing books. The smell of paper and ink that makes me wonder which one of the many hundreds is the oldest book in the store, that has been forgotten and is unsold. The feeling of anticipation when turning into a new bookshelf row on what I could stumble on. The little hidden gems that sit at the top and are most times difficult to reach.

My dream is to be part of the family. To, one day, see a copy of my work sitting there, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be loved. I want to title myself an Author. I cannot imagine any other work that enriches you with so many unfolding possibilities and gratification. An author’s work is never-ending because our imagination is limitless. I’d like my writing to bring enjoyment to the London’s commuter, romance to the ladies and a little bit of unwind time to everyone in our frantic world.

I am not after fame or fortune, well maybe the latter but certainly not the first. I am too shy for that. I just wish to tell stories that make people want to have a rest, sit down with a cup of tea, and  enjoy a good read.